Art of Survival
by LemonSmoothie
Summary: Post Trials and Tribulations. A short series of vignettes from Godot's POV.


"The Art of Survival"

Disclaimer: All characters from Ace Attorney are copyright Capcom

Time: Right after Trials and Tribulations

"I've returned from the depths of Hell to do battle with you." It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.

But even the space between life and death was less of a Hell than the one I returned to. I knew the world would keep on going without me, but to learn what I did.

I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Diego Armando, or _was_.

When I was poisoned by Little Miss Psycho Bitch, I wasn't technically dead. My heart was still beating, but my nervous system was completely shot. Brain death, if you want to be precise.

My little sister was a big believer in letting nature run its course, so I was in the 'circling the drain' ward of the hospital, on life support.

My consciousness was somewhere else. I hardly remember it, except for Azrael. The Angel of Death.

Azrael reminded me of a bishounen prettyboy, with long golden hair, soft blue eyes, and a creamy complexion that would make male models envious. He wore a long red coat – I remember thinking red was such an unusual choice for an angel. I expected white or black. Of course, after I woke up, I would perceive it as white. My visor's electronic sensors can't detect wavelengths shorter than 590 nanometers.

"_Can't I make a deal with you?" I asked. "To come back to life?" _

"_You're not quite dead yet, but do I look like the Devil?" Azrael replied. _

"_You could say no," I said. _

"_Or I could say yes. You could wake up. But what you seek demands a heavy price." _

"_And that would be?" I arched an eyebrow. _

"_The price is your acceptance." _

"_My acceptance?" I repeated. _

"_That no matter what happens, you must accept it." _

"_That all?" I laughed. _

"_Also, there's the matter of your body," he said. "It's been in a persistent vegetative state for years. While you've been technically alive, your muscles have atrophied and your bones have lost density. Also, the poison absolutely destroyed your nervous system, both central and peripheral." _

"_You're an angel," I snapped. "Aren't miracles in your job description?" _

"_Hey, miracles can only do so much. I'm just being honest. Your body will not quite be as good as it was." _

"_I can live with that." _

"_I suppose that it's a good sign you can joke. Very well. You're going to feel very fuzzy in a few minutes, but you'll wake up. It will be dark, but you will be alive." _

XXX

And so it happened. I stirred in my bed, smelling a nearby attending physician's coffee. He let me have it. I mean, who was he to begrudge me? I was going to be the star of his career-breaking paper, the first ever recovery from brain death.

I'll never forget how good the coffee tasted going down. Doctors have the best coffee.

Coffee is referred to the Nectar of the Gods in medical circles, and I'm inclined to agree with them.

"Rejoice, Mr. Armando," the nurse said. She was a sweetie by the name of Carrie Taker. I knew she was smiling, though I couldn't see her face. I was completely blind. "You're lucky you didn't develop sepsis. Surviving is an art, and you're a true _artiste._"

Yes, the art of survival.

XXX

Shortly after my arrest for the murder of Misty Fey, Claremont McKenna, the Chief Prosecutor, paid me a visit at the Detention Center.

They called her the Ice Queen, and not always behind her back.

She was tall and well-built for a woman. She wore a gray bush jacket complete with four pockets, a self-belt, and passants. The piping on the jacket was navy blue, and she wore navy dress pants, a collared white shirt and a navy blue ascot. Her hands were covered with black leather gloves and she was wearing knee-high black jodhpur boots. Interestingly, the pants were very straight, like a man's trousers. Also, her jacket's buttons were on the right side of her body, like on a gentleman's jacket. Her shirt was covered by the jacket, so only the collar was visible, but I'm sure it was a man's shirt.

Her hair was white, like mine. It was a lot shorter than mine, in a layered cut.

She had pierced ears. Her earrings were simple diamond studs, at least a half carat each. I can't think of a better jewel to suit her. The old legend that diamonds were ice chunks that permanently froze. The root of the word diamond, _adamas. _Unconquerable. The one feminine touch on her otherwise masculine silhouette, and what does it say?

"_Why are you the Chief Prosecutor? I would have expected Bratworth," I asked after my first trial. _

"_He went soft," McKenna said simply._

"_Do you despise him? Because he overshadowed you?" _

"_I'm here in the end, aren't I?" She replied. "And I won't go soft like him. Nor will I resort to forged evidence, like my predecessor Lana Skye. I've never forged evidence. I don't have to. I'm aware of how arrogant that makes me sound, but it's the truth."_

But back to the present. I couldn't think of what to say to her.

"You shouldn't be here," McKenna observed.

"Neither should you," I said, recalling something Azrael told me once_. Claremont McKenna, she's frosty, isn't she? I was cheated out of such a sure thing with her. _"But we're here."

I expected anger, or at least surprise. As I said, McKenna is a closed book. But there was only a slight change in her expression. She seemed bemused, as the corners of her mouth tilted almost imperceptibly. She's good.

"Cite your source on that," McKenna said, her voice sounding cheerful.

"I can't say," I replied. I felt my smirk meeting her lilt. "I can say it's quite reliable, though."

"When I said 'you shouldn't be here', I actually meant this prison," McKenna said. "Not _alive_. Though if your doctor was any kind of doctor, you shouldn't be alive."

"Why did you want to see me?" I asked. "Surely not to discuss my severance pay. I killed a woman. I'll lose my head. How's that for severance?"

"Don't be so certain about that," McKenna replied. "I ordered a coroner's inquest. Three judges will review the facts of the case. There are three potential verdicts: criminal, excusable, or justifiable. If your involvement in the death of Misty Fey is deemed to be criminal, you will be put on trial. And you'll probably be declared guilty and sentenced to death, though you will likely die before your execution date."

"And if it's ruled justifiable or excusable?"

"Then you're a free man."

"There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Yes. In the event your verdict is justifiable or excusable, would you be willing to return to the Prosecutor's office? Despite your quirks, you are a good lawyer. It would be such a shame to surrender you."

"You drive a hard bargain, McKenna," I said. "But yes. There's sufficient evidence against me to go directly to trial, but you ordered an inquest. I'm not the sort of man to say no to a lady who'd risk her own reputation for me." I smiled at her.

XXX

Before the inquest, I talked to McKenna. "I have one thing to ask."

"Yes?" She asked. "I can't really discuss the case with you, and I have no say in the verdict, so keep that in mind."

I slipped the ring Mia lovingly gave me so many years ago off my left index finger. "Hold on to this. If I go free, you can give it back to me. If not, could you give it to my last living relative? Her name's Frida Armando. My little sister."

"Very well," McKenna held out her hand, and I gently placed the ring into it.

It was ruled excusable. For a while, the judges were stuck. Judge Dike Hour wanted to rule it criminal. She has a real 'all sinners will be judged, no exceptions' complex. Judge Kim Yunity was leaning toward justifiable, as she has a soft spot for the safety of children. Judge Di Plomassy managed…somehow to get them to change their votes to excusable. The votes of the three judges must be unanimous in an inquest.

XXX

McKenna smiled at me. We were in her office just after the verdict was handed down. "Do you agree to serve the prosecutor's office once more? In sickness and in health?"

"Well, I'll always be sick," I said. "But yes."

"Anything you wish to renegotiate with your contract?" McKenna asked. "Any rules I should be aware of?"

"I have many rules, my dear," I said. "But this one is first and foremost: no coffee, no workee. So you should get that antiquated machine in the lounge looked at ASAP."

"Fine," McKenna said. She took my left hand and slipped on the ring. "I'm glad you're on board with me again, Prosecutor Godot. Now get to work. On Monday's trial, you'll be up against the Coolest Defense in the West."

XXX

And so Prosecutor Godot remained free, though the freedom left a bitter taste in my mouth to rival my bitterest blend. McKenna had left my office exactly the way it was, so I sat down in front of my desk and drank down some coffee.

Azrael appeared before me, seated petulantly on the chair opposite my desk. "You've cheated me yet again."

I threw my mug at him. It went right through.

"As cheery as always," Azrael said. "I'm not a certain spiky-haired lawyer with a stupid name."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone pass by the open door.

"The terms of the deal were to accept what happens, no matter what," I said. "So I'll be sending a few sinners to the executioner's block before your collection day."

"I suppose so," Azrael replied. "Does it bother you? Being a prosecutor for a reason other than your convoluted quest for vengeance?"

Another mug slid in front of me, and I drank it down. (Wonder how I do that? Trade secret.) "Being a defense attorney is a noble profession. It hardly suits a murderer, does it?"

"I hope you don't resent me for what happened back there," Azrael said. "It was Misty Fey's time to die, not yours." He reclined in the chair. "Hate to leave you, Diego, but it's my poker night and I feel lucky." He faded. That's the best way to describe it. He slowly became transparent, and then even that faded.

I picked up my case file and began to read.

A few minutes later, there was a rap on my doorframe.

A tall, imposing man stood in my doorway. Hair and tie black as coal. Clad in a black and white surcoat with the Blackquill family crest. A recent hire, Simon Blackquill. Sharp like Klavier Gavin, but similarly young and inexperienced. Compared to veterans of court like me or McKenna, Blackquill and Gavin seemed like…infants. I suppose McKenna did need new blood.

"Godot-dono, who was your visitor just now?" Blackquill asked. He held a pizza bagel. Obviously, he had gone to the lounge to warm it up in the microwave and was on his way back to his office. I could smell the tomato sauce and pepperoni.

"Is there some sort of reason you're asking?" I replied. Not to be defensive, but how would a straight-laced guy like him respond to 'Oh, that's the angel of death, who likes to screw me with me every now and then. His name is Azrael, and your born-too-late schtick would make him laugh, so I simply _must _introduce you two'?

"I saw into your office when I passed, and the man there cast no shadow," Blackquill said, gesturing to the overhead fluorescent lights. "That would make for an interesting psychological effect in the courtroom."

Knew I should have closed the door. But too late for regrets. "He's no one worth your concern, Simon."

He smirked, and he actually did look like Edgeworth. "First name? Are you insinuating we're peers?"

Another full mug rested on my desk. I picked it up and threw it.

Quick as lightning, Blackquill drew a razor-sharp katana from the scabbard at his side and sliced the mug. It landed on the carpet, neatly bisected.

"Nice trick," I said. "But you owe me a new mug."

XXX

Diego Armando died, and was reborn as Godot. I thought Godot would die with Phoenix Wright's career. Godot has survived. Or perhaps he will die and be reborn as Diego Armando.

No matter. What else can I do? Just keep working on the art of survival.

Where do I go from here?


End file.
